


Autumn Child

by Tehri



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bilbo Remains In Erebor, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Bilbo's birth, M/M, Where Bilbo's name came from
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-24
Updated: 2017-03-24
Packaged: 2018-10-10 05:13:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10429914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tehri/pseuds/Tehri
Summary: During an autumn rainstorm, Thorin is joined in his chambers by Bilbo - who only wished for a good place to listen to the rain against the windows. When asked why he enjoys such horrible weather, Bilbo decides to tell the dwarf-king the story of his birth.





	

Thorin was exhausted. There was no other way to say it. He was bone-tired, and wanted nothing more than to curl up in bed and sleep. But even with a kingdom reclaimed and declared safe, there was too much to do. Too much that had to be looked over.

With autumn having arrived, the dwarves of Erebor were doing all they could to ensure that they had enough to survive the coming winter. It was as if nothing had ever happened; just as they had done a hundred years ago, and as they had continued in the Blue Mountains, they stocked up on food and whatever else they could possibly need. And Thorin helped wherever he could, to the seeming surprise and annoyance of the nobles. That he held the title of King under the Mountain meant very little if his people starved or died of cold.

“King or no, a crown will not warm you and a mountain of gold cannot be eaten,” Thorin had stated last time the subject came up – that he was repeating a certain hobbit’s words was something no one but those who had travelled with the Company needed to know. “And we have many hungry mouths to feed.”

Four years he had done this, and he had been forced to say the same thing over and over; no, he would not let others do all the work, he couldn’t simply sit on his throne and wait to be fed. It wasn’t in his nature, wasn’t how he had grown up. They’d all been made to pull their own weight after the dragon had devastated Erebor, and Thorin had been comfortable with that. He’d hunted with people far below his station; he’d worked as a smith in the villages of Men to earn enough to buy food. It had been a good life for him and had made him feel like less of a burden. And now, having travelled with and befriended dwarves such as Bifur, Bofur, and Bombur, it horrified him to think that there were those who thought it beneath him to help with filling the winter storages.

“Let them talk,” Bofur had told him one evening. “They’d never so much as work in a forge, they’re too afraid to dirty their hands. The fact that you’re not afraid of it and have done it before makes you a better king, really.”

“They’re horrified at having miners, chefs, and toymakers in their midst now,” Bombur had chimed in. “Of course it helps that we have the support of you and your cousins, but we’ll never be _nobles_ , if you take my meaning. In the same way, you’ve never really been a noble either – you’ve worked just as hard as anybody else.”

Thorin wanted to say that it made him feel better. Technically, it did. But as he finally returned to his chambers at the end of a long day, he couldn’t claim to think of much else than the sound of the rain against the windows and a warm bed – something that had, for such a long time, been a luxury to many of his people. It was practically insane how much he had missed windows, he reflected distantly, during the years in Ered Luin. They hadn’t had windows in their chambers there, located further below the ground rather than far above it.

Oh yes, the rain. Thorin had, during all those years he had spent elsewhere, forgotten how much it could rain in these lands. It was never simply raining; it was as though someone in the heavens had turned a bucket upside down over the Lonely Mountain and its surrounding lands. He’d been outside when it hit this time, helping to get the last caravan of the year through the gates. The past two hours or so had been spent in soaked through clothes and with chattering teeth, and he was eager now to get everything off and get dry.

He had just started to work his boots and socks off when a familiar voice sounded behind him.

“Hello, Thorin.”

He almost fell over, balanced on one leg as he was, when he tried to turn to see who it was. Bilbo sat in the niche by the window, wrapped up tightly in what looked like one of the furs from Thorin’s bed, and grinned at him.

“Mahal’s breath, you startled me,” Thorin groaned. “Do you have to do that?”

“How else am I to know if you’re paying attention to your surroundings?” Bilbo answered impishly.

“You sound like Dwalin,” Thorin muttered, returning his attention to his clothes. “Why are you here?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Allow me to think for a moment,” the dwarf said airily. “Oh yes, it comes back to me now. Perhaps you would not be here because you have your own chambers, not to mention that you spend so much time in the kitchens nowadays that you may well have slept there.”

“Cheeky,” Bilbo chuckled. “Well, if you must know, I wanted a view. I can see almost all the way to the lake from here.”

“In this downpour?” Thorin raised an eyebrow at the hobbit and tilted his head. “Your eyes must be better than an elf’s for that. You do have windows in your own chambers, little master.”

“So I do, and yet there is a ledge above them,” the hobbit hummed. “The rain cannot hit them, and I find that the sound is soothing.”

“Perhaps it should have been you down by the gates, then, and I could have stayed inside,” Thorin stated, smirking at the glower that his words earned him. “No, I only jest.”

He pulled off the remains of his soaked clothing, sighing in relief though he shuddered at the cold air against his damp skin. He scarcely spared Bilbo a second glance; there was no shame now, not after they had spent much time in even closer quarters during their journey. But he could feel the small creature’s eyes on him and finally, as he rummaged through what dry clothing he could find, had to look over at Bilbo and smile.

“Your eyes will bore a hole through me if you stare like that,” he stated, grinning unrepentantly when the hobbit turned away with flushed cheeks. “Does it amuse you to see me freeze?”

Bilbo didn’t answer, only unwrapped himself from the fur and held it open in a silent invitation. When Thorin didn’t come closer immediately, but rather pulled out trousers and socks and a tunic from his wardrobe, the hobbit began to grumble.

“Does it amuse you to always be cold?” he asked. “I’ve hardly seen you for a week, and you already look as though you want to go back outside.”

“I would, if I had any interest in being bedridden for a while,” Thorin shot back. “As it stands, I would rather have something to wear before sitting down on cold stone.”

“Details,” Bilbo stated dismissively. “Now come over here, it’s cold.”

“Then don’t sit by the window. It’s colder there than anywhere else in this room.”

“Well. Then I suppose I’ll just rescind my invitation for some peaceful time together. You, my dear dwarf, are taking too long.”

“Cruel hobbit,” Thorin sighed. He pulled on his dry clothes and padded over to the window, climbed into the niche, made himself comfortable and unceremoniously pulled the fur away from the hobbit and wrapped it around himself. “If you want me to act as your personal furnace, you could just say.”

Bilbo shivered and climbed onto his lap, sighing contentedly when Thorin wrapped both his arms and the fur around him.

“I didn’t need you as a furnace until you decided to take that fur away,” he said.

“And the fur is mine, so I should call that justified,” the dwarf answered with a laugh. “You have your own and yet chose to steal mine, little burglar.”

“You could stop calling me _little_ , please and thank you,” Bilbo sniffed. “I am precisely the size I am meant to be.”

“Now you sound like Gandalf,” Thorin muttered, though he still smiled as he buried his face in Bilbo’s hair. He listened to the sound of the rain for a while before speaking again. “As soothing as it is to be inside and away from the rain, I cannot see how you could enjoy such weather. I thought you preferred the mild summers of your homeland.”

“Oh no.” Bilbo chuckled and reached out to stroke Thorin’s hair. “I love autumn and autumn rainstorms best of all. I was born during one, you know.”

“Were you?” Thorin hummed softly and closed his eyes.  “I suppose your parents told you of it?”

“You see, autumn comes early in the Shire,” Bilbo stated softly, slipping into what Fili and Kili had lovingly named his ‘story-telling’ voice. “So early that autumn storms begin already in September. The leaves turn so quickly and colour the land in gold and red. Then the rains roll in and the cold winds come. The first rainstorms come in late September, and they can be quite intense.”

Thorin smiled and tilted his head, resting it against the hobbit’s hand. Though he had never seen the Shire in anything else than its spring-clothing, with budding leaves and flowers and vibrant green grass, he could imagine it in autumn; all leaves shifting in red, gold, and orange, the grass slowly turning yellow and the beautiful blue sky being veiled in grey. It would be fair still, he imagined.

“There was a rainstorm when I was born,” the hobbit continued. “My mother woke my poor da in the wee hours of the morning, and at first he couldn’t understand what she wanted. All he really knew was that the rain was thrumming against the windows and the wind was howling. And mum was shaking him and very urgently telling him that she needed help.”

The dwarf hummed softly when Bilbo paused, mostly to show that he was listening. The sound of the rain on the windows certainly set the mood.

“Mum told him that she needed help to move out of the bed and get into the birthing chair,” Bilbo explained. “And da was fully convinced that she was either joking or overreacting. It took that another bout of cramps started for him to realise that she really did need help, and goodness knows that woke him up.” Thorin snickered silently, and Bilbo gave him a light shove. “Oh, stop that. He couldn’t help it, he was half asleep and mum had a habit of getting wound up over everything then.”

“Yes, I understand that,” the dwarf admitted, still laughing silently. “But you have to admit that it is amusing to imagine.”

“Hush, you.” Judging by the hobbit’s voice, he had to be smiling. “Well, my poor mum certainly did not think it was that amusing. She made da get out of bed and help her manoeuver into the chair, and then insisted that he hurry out into the pouring rain and the beating wind to fetch the healer.”

“You’re not making the situation less amusing to imagine.”

“Well, it’s what they told me,” Bilbo shot back with a laugh. “My poor da who hated being outside in the rain and being wet and cold. And mum didn’t even let him put on his trousers, only shouted at him until he grabbed his dressing gown and ran out the door with a lantern.” He leant against Thorin, turning his head to look out the window. “So there he went, in only his nightclothes and a dressing gown, running as fast as he could down the Hill to fetch mistress Salvia. Poor lass, she had only just finished her apprenticeship and established herself as the go-to healer for the hobbits living in the area just around the Hill. And not even a month after she’d done so, there was the master of the Hill’s eldest son on her doorstep, not even decently dressed, wild-eyed and panting, telling her that she had to come up to Bag End because his wife was about to give birth.”

Thorin laughed, not bothering to even attempt to stop himself.

“Poor lass, indeed,” he stated. “It must’ve been horrible.”

“Well, in all fairness, her first task when she did establish herself in Hobbiton was to handle my grandpa Mungo once when he had very high fever,” Bilbo admitted with a grin. “He was a lot more intimidating than my da, even when feverish and unable to stand.”

“Brilliant first impressions of your family, I take it,” the dwarf snickered. “Though I suppose she hadn’t been entirely frightened off, since you’re sitting here with me.”

“She almost was,” the hobbit chuckled. “But she could hardly tell da to leave her alone when he was so distressed and had gone out in a rainstorm to fetch her. She did come along, and they were both more like drowned rats than hobbits when they reached Bag End.” He paused, a pensive look on his face. “I don’t know the details of the birth. Da didn’t have much to say about it, more than that it went fast.”

“That is always some small mercy, I should think.”

“Well, it would be.  But, well… Something went wrong. I don’t know what, precisely, but mum couldn’t have more children after me. Salvia stayed at Bag End for a few days to make sure she would be alright.”

Thorin peered at Bilbo’s reflection in the window. The pensive look had turned into something sadder, a shadow of guilt that wouldn’t fade.

“Sometimes that happens,” the dwarf-king said softly, carefully trailing his fingers through the hobbit’s hair. “It can’t always go smoothly, and those giving birth for the first time are always at risk.”

He thought of Dís, remembering his own fear when she was to give birth for the first time. Dwarrowdams had a hard time only to conceive, but childbirth was indeed likely to kill them.

“I know, I know.” Bilbo smiled faintly and sighed, leaning more heavily against Thorin’s chest. “I still feel horribly guilty. They both wanted more than one child. Da had specifically built Bag End for a large family. I know it couldn’t possibly have been my fault – these things do happen, and while a baby might cause it, that doesn’t mean that the child is at fault.”

The dwarf hummed softly and closed his eyes once more, burying his face in the hobbit’s curls again.

“The rainstorm persisted?” he asked, hoping to direct Bilbo’s thoughts elsewhere. “Even in the morning?”

“In the morning, it turned into a thunderstorm,” Bilbo answered. His hand landed on Thorin’s where it rested on his stomach. “Mum was tired after the birth and had to sleep. Da was exhausted after having been on edge since she woke him up, but still had to look after me for a while. And poor Salvia was off to fetch a few things to ensure that she could stay with us. Everyone was so exhausted that they didn’t want to do anything else but lay in bed and rest.”

“Should I take it that it’s not over there?” Thorin asked, amusement bleeding into his voice despite the rather sombre mood. “You’re making it sound as though there’s more.”

“The naming of the baby is something very important.” Bilbo spoke slowly, as though choosing his words as he went along. “Often hobbits will name their children after older family members, or someone further back in the family tree who was important in some way.” He took a deep breath and exhaled forcefully. “I was to be named after my great-grandpa Balbo Baggins. That was da’s idea. Mum thought he should get to choose something, and they both favoured the less grandiose names of the Baggins-family.”

“Then how did you end up with Bilbo?”

“That would be because I had an inconvenient crying fit when da told mum what he’d decided on. And mum misheard.”

Thorin’s shoulders shook despite his efforts to keep himself from laughing. Bilbo twisted around in his lap and glared at him.

“Don’t you laugh at me,” he snapped. “It was an honest mistake, and it is certainly not a bad name!”

“It is a very good name,” Thorin readily agreed, though he had to choke out the words between badly concealed fits of laughter. “I only wonder how on earth she heard so wrong.”

The hobbit swatted at him and managed nothing more than to make the dwarf-king grin unrepentantly back.

“Well,” Bilbo huffed, “it happens. And at least it’s nothing horrible.” He twisted around again and leant back against his companion’s chest. “Anyway, that is the story of my birth. I don’t suppose you know yours?”

“I know my mother nearly crushed my father’s hand,” Thorin answered once he could speak without laughing between every other word. “And I know my grandfather was afraid of entering the room afterwards to see them because of her screaming.”

“That’s a terrible story.”

“Well, little burglar, I am not a storyteller. Nor was I told much of my birth.” He grasped the hobbit’s hand in his own and squeezed it. “I know more of the naming.”

“You were named after a king, were you not?” Bilbo asked curiously. “You are the second of your name, aren’t you?”

“Well remembered,” Thorin chuckled. “I suppose Balin’s drilling is getting to you.”

“Hobbits have a knack for family-trees,” the hobbit answered. “Now, won’t you tell me of your naming?”

The dwarf stretched. His legs were growing stiff, and yet he had little wish to move away from the niche by the window. He turned his head to watch the sheets of rain still falling and thrumming against the glass, and his gaze met Bilbo’s in the reflection.

“My namesake was the great-grandson of Durin, the sixth of our lord’s name,” he said slowly. “Thorin the first was already past a hundred and fifty in age when he took the throne after his father Thrain, the first of that name. While his father had founded Erebor, in all its splendour, my namesake heeded messages from the Grey Mountains, where many of his people’s brethren had settled after their escape from Khazad-dûm.” He paused briefly, briefly hearing Balin berating him in his mind for the use of Khuzdul. But Bilbo had lived with them for a long time now, and he was hardly an outsider; rather than take heed to his own berating, he made note to ask Balin if the hobbit could not be taught their tongue. “I am the sixth great-grandson of my namesake, and my grandfather brought our people back to Erebor in his youth.”

“That tells me very little of the actual naming,” Bilbo stated with a laugh.

“One left and one returned,” Thorin answered, smiling warmly at the hobbit’s reflection in the window. “My namesake led our people away from here. My grandfather led them back and named his own son, my father, after the dwarf who founded Erebor. It seemed only natural that I should follow.”

“And you,” the hobbit filled in, “were exiled by an irate dragon in your youth and eventually led your people back. So we come full circle.”

“Precisely.” The dwarf grinned and raised an eyebrow. “A fair amount better than a misheard name, don’t you think?”

“And that,” Bilbo stated firmly, “is my cue to get us both some tea before I make you eat your own braids in retaliation.” He sighed deeply, shivering when he pulled away from the warmth of the fur and Thorin’s embrace and climbed out of the niche. “I should never have told you that.”

Thorin only laughed and watched as the hobbit padded over to the hearth. Perhaps the rain was not so bad, he reasoned, if it had once accompanied the birth of the Mountain’s resident hobbit.

**Author's Note:**

> Decline in quality towards the end, mainly because I quite honestly ran out of ideas of where the hell to go with this. But at least I managed to wrap it up.


End file.
